


mine would be you

by nothinginfinite



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Established Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 22:21:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2286504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothinginfinite/pseuds/nothinginfinite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> Breaking up with you was s’posed to make things easy, wouldn’t hurt so bad with no strings, right? But missing someone and wanting them to be around and hear their voice - that’s gonna happen anyway, when you’re in love. Only now I’ve gone and fucked it up because I still get to miss you and want you around and miss your voice but this time, you’re not coming back in the end.</i> </p>
<p>Harry hasn't spoken to or seen Nick since he left London at the start of tour, newly single and in possession of one broken heart, so he's not expecting it when Nick calls him in the middle of his own birthday party, drunk as anything. If the multiple attempts to contact him are unexpected, the voicemail confessions were never on Harry's radar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mine would be you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tanni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanni/gifts), [aurora_84](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_84/gifts), [turntlou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/turntlou/gifts).



> What started out a twit!fic not!fic to an off-hand comment about Nick calling Harry drunk from his birthday party somehow turned into _THIS_. I'd apologize, but I'm kind of not really sorry? Now that I've gotten my angst written out, maybe I'll be able ot get the other two ficlets I've been working on finished. 
> 
> Thanks to [Ves](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_84/pseuds/aurora_84), [Tanni](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanni) & [Ash](http://archiveofourown.org/users/turntlou) for the cheerleading and encouragement, the endless conversations regarding headcanons and feels and possible scenarios, for letting me make you cry repeatedly with my Nick/Harry song references and last, but not least, doing a quick read over of this for me. Y'all are the bee's knees for sure. 
> 
> Any remaining mistakes are certainly my own. It should go without saying by now, but I do not own or claim to know anyone mentioned in this fic and distribution of this to anyone in and/or associated with the people in this fic is a terrible no-no. Let's preserve (what's left of) the fourth wall, please.
> 
> Lyrical breaks between the paragraphs are taken from Blake Shelton's [Mine Would Be You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9JkdBnT7j2I).

**♩♪♫♬ ♩♪♫♬**

**_what's your all time high, your good as it gets? your hands down best ever make-up sex?_ **  
**_what's your guilty pleasure, your old go to? well if you asked me, mine would be you_ **

**♩♪♫♬ ♩♪♫♬**

Harry’s still riding the high from the concert, adrenaline pumping through his veins and keeping him buzzing with energy, but beneath it, he can feel the bone-deep exhaustion that comes with touring non-stop, living out of suitcases and longing for home. He loves it, loves traveling the world and meeting their fans and performing his heart out with his four best friends. But. He’s _tired_ and the thought alone makes him feel so guilty, so he buries it deep and keeps pushing through day by day by day.

He lifts his arm in a wave to one of the sound guys, making a face at the way his shirt sticks to his skin. Houston had more than lived up to its muggy reputation, leaving Harry feeling wet and sticky before they’d even set foot on the stage. He blows out a breath as he steps into the dressing room and heads straight for the cooler full of bottled water. The ice water they’re floating in is shockingly cold and he can’t suppress the sigh of relief when he presses the bottle against his heated skin, relieving some of the hot sticky feeling before he twists the cap off and drinks deep.

He’s in dire need of a shower, needs to get out of his jeans before they start chafing and probably a good wank to help release some of the excess energy humming through him. The high he was riding when they came off-stage is settling into more of a restlessness, leaving Harry feeling itchy in his own skin. It’s going to take more than a quick jerk-off in the venue shower to settle him enough for sleep and it’s a hotel night anyway, so Harry packs up his stuff and shoots a quick text off to Paul, letting him know that he wants to head back early and then tosses his phone into his bag; it’s almost dead anyway.

Harry offers up a wan smile when the other boys fumble into the dressing room, climbing all over each other with post-show energy like a litter of puppies and Harry can’t help the sharp tug of fondness that rushes over him. These are his boys, his _brothers_ and they may not always agree or get along, but they’re family and he’s hard-pressed to imagine - no, _remember_ \- his life without them. No one else seems to notice that his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes but Liam, sweet, observant Liam, shoots Harry a look of concern, brows knitting together and his mouth turning down. Harry’s not in the mood though, feels too unsettled and buzzed to want the instinctual comfort and soothing that Liam’s always quick to offer up whenever one of them is hurting or missing home, and he turns his head away when he sees Liam start to open his mouth. He knows that’s not enough to throw Liam off so he’s eternally grateful when Louis tackles Liam from behind, effectively distracting him as he wrestles Louis to the floor, Niall quickly joining in because he’s never one to miss out on a good tussle with his boys.

Paul pokes his head into the room and catches Harry’s eye with a jerk of his head, alerting him to the arrival of the car. Picking up his bag, Harry slips out of the dressing room unnoticed, his boys still locked in a struggle to the death. 

**♩♪♫♬ ♩♪♫♬**

**_what's your worst hangover, your best night yet? your 90 proof, your marlboro red?  
the best damn thing you lucked into? that's easy love, mine would be you_ **

**♩♪♫♬ ♩♪♫♬**  

The little green light of the key-lock on his door flashes once before Harry’s pushing down the handle and shoving his door open, stumbling into his room and dropping his bag just inside the door and off to the side against the wall, out of the way of foot traffic. He’s _exhausted_ , shoulders feeling even heavier and there’s a deep ache that’s settled permanently in his back, a result of overworking himself constantly. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he sighs and then tugs his shirt up and off, tossing it off to the side of his bag, rolling out his shoulders. Sitting down at the foot of the bed, he toes off his boots and then tugs off his socks, kicking them out of the way as he stands and pads into the ensuite, fingers tugging at the button and zip of his jeans.

Harry fiddles with the dials of the tap in the shower as he turns it on, reaching down to test the temperature before pulling back and sliding the curtain closed. He catches sight of his reflection in the mirror and the over-bright lights of the bathroom are doing nothing for his complexion, making the dark circles beneath his eyes stand out even more. He makes a face at the little bit of a belly he’s gotten, nose wrinkling in annoyance. He knows he’s not fat, by any means, but he’d been working hard to keep things fit and toned prior to tour, only to all but give up the moment they hit the road. Granted, he also had a reason to work out before tour, coming home from a morning run dripping with sweat and welcomed with heated kisses that more often than not, led to more.

He closes his eyes against the images that assault his memory, the familiar sting of wet heat behind his eyelids as he draws in a shaky breath. Opening his eyes, he tears his gaze away from the mirror and turns, heading back out into his room to peel off his jeans and pants, throwing them in the same pile as his shirt earlier, before stepping back into the bathroom and into the shower.

If he takes a moment to lean his head against the cool tile, hot water beating down on his back and shoulders as he stands in the spray and lets the tears come unbidden, any evidence is washed away with the water down the drain.

  **♩♪♫♬ ♩♪♫♬**

**_what's your double dare, your go all in? the craziest thing you ever did?  
plain as your name in this tattoo; look on my arm, mine would be you_ **

**♩♪♫♬ ♩♪♫♬**  

Nearly thirty minutes later finds Harry stepping out of the bathroom in a billow of steam, dragging a towel over his head to dry his hair. His muscles feel a little looser, thanks to the hot spray beating down on them, but he’s still a little too keyed up, having not been in the mood for a wank in the shower. Tossing the towel back into the bathroom, he shakes his hair out of his eyes and idly scratches his stomach as he moves back over to his bag to grab some joggers; he’s kind of hungry and not everyone appreciates his nudist tendencies.

His phone is sitting on top of his clothes and he curses under his breath, having forgotten to plug it in. He knows that, if needed, Paul could ring through to his hotel room if he was needed, but there might be important calls from his mum that he’s missed, seeing as how he’s not really checked his phone all day. It takes him a second to find his charger, but soon enough, he’s got his phone plugged in and resting on the nightstand to charge while he orders himself a salad from room service and then flops back on the bed, flicking the telly on.

It takes until there’s a knock on the door, announcing the arrival of his dinner, before his phone has enough juice to power on automatically, and it’s vibrating incessantly with missed notifications when Harry steps back into the room and comes around the corner with his tray. Brows furrowing, he sets the tray down on the desk and then turns to check his phone, just to be sure it’s not important. When his thumb swipes the lock open, there’s fifteen unread texts, four missed phone calls and voicemails. Ignoring the texts for now, he chews his lip as he opens the first voicemail, bringing the phone up to his ear. The voice on the other end of the phone has him gasping softly. Suddenly it feels like his legs won’t support him anymore and Harry sinks to the bed, fingers clutching his phone tightly. He can feel the build up of tears again and he swallows roughly, wanting to listen to the message and delete it unheard all at once.

_“Hiya, popstar.”_ Harry can hear music playing loudly in the background and there’s some shuffling around for a moment, some unintelligible curses followed by a thump and then it’s quiet, though Harry can still hear a muffled bass line thumping down the line. The message goes quiet long enough that Harry almost pulls the phone away to check that it hasn’t ended but there’s a sigh, wet and ragged and _broken_ , even through the static. _“Miss you. Probably shouldn’ta called, ‘m sure you’re off doing proper popstar things and Aimee would probably have me bollocks if she knew I was in here but.”_

Nick makes a sound like a hiccup and sniffs and Harry knows he’s drunk, can hear how much he’s slurring and he’s ninety percent sure that Nick never would have made the phone call sober but Nick’s voice sounds so _sad_ and choked up, like he’s trying to hold back tears and it’s breaking Harry’s heart to hear it. _“S’my birthday, y’know. Aimee and Gellz worked hard to put this party together and make this day special and I should be happy because I’m 30 and flirty and thrivin’ and surrounded by all my friends but I’m sitting in a dark room, pissed as fuck and it’s your fault, y’know. You’re not here and I’m sad. How can one person make or break your day?”_

The message cuts off then and Harry swallows as he brings the phone down in front of him and he’s vaguely aware his hands are shaking as he presses play on the next message.

_“‘m sorry. ‘m a bit of a dick. S’not your fault, Haz. S’mine. Please don’t hate me.”_

That’s all there is to that message and Harry hurries to play the next one, simultaneously wanting to know what else Nick has to say and never wanting to know at all because it _hurts_. Even if Nick is pissed off his gourd and never remembers the phone calls, Harry will and Harry can’t help but wonder if deep down, there’s some truth to Nick’s drunken ramblings, if he doesn’t blame Harry for coming into his life and making him miserable. Wonders if Nick knows that Harry is just as miserable, too. Chewing his lip, he presses play.

_“S’funny. It’s my birthday and I’m in Ibiza and I should be livin’ it up, prime of my youth or sommat but I can’t. I can’t enjoy myself because the one person I want around, that I_ always _want around, isn’t here. I know you can’t help it, you’ve got to give your adoring public what they crave, but I still wish you were here. Not jus’ here, like Ibiza. I mean here. In my life. In my bed. In my arms. I miss you, popstar. I’m so sorry.”_

Harry doesn’t notice the tears that have started making their way down his cheeks, throat tight as he struggles to swallow past the lump there. He hesitates, thumb hovering over the last voicemail.

  **♩♪♫♬ ♩♪♫♬**

**_what's the greatest chapter in your book? are there pages where it hurts to look?  
what's the one regret you can't work through? you got it baby, mine would be you_ **

**♩♪♫♬ ♩♪♫♬**  

(It had been Nick’s suggestion that when Harry left for tour this time, their relationship would also come to an end. Harry had nodded along as Nick babbled about how hard the distance was and how he wanted something a little more permanent while Harry’s heart thumped erratically and he struggled to keep from falling apart. Harry supposes he can see where Nick’s coming from, but all Harry could hear was that all the time and effort they’d put into making it work, all the sneaking around Harry had done to steal time with Nick in between their hectic schedules - it wasn’t enough. _Harry_ wasn’t enough and that’s what finally made him break apart, sitting in his car in front of his lovely, _lonely_ house, heart splintering inside his chest as he wept.

Nick had said that he still wanted to be friends, but after Harry ignored the first few texts and missed calls on purpose, still too raw, Nick had ceased contact. Harry knows that Nick knows his schedule but never once does he ask if Harry’s coming home to London and in turn, Harry flees to LA during any and all breaks, seeking refuge in the sun and throwing himself into his work. It’s been months but Harry stills wakes up some mornings, reaching out across the sheets for the warm body that no longer lies next to his.)

  **♩♪♫♬ ♩♪♫♬**

**_taillights fading, daylight breaking, standing there like a fool.  
when I should've been running, yellin' out something to make you wanna hold on to the best love ever.  
baby, can you tell me the one thing you'd rather die than lose? ‘cause mine would be you_ **

**♩♪♫♬ ♩♪♫♬**  

Sucking in a breath, Harry presses play and listens, breath caught in his chest, free hand gripping his knee.

_“Hiya, popstar. S’me. Again. I miss you. So much. I thought I was doing the right thing, protecting us both from gettin’ hurt. S’pretty stupid of me. Ended up with a broken heart anyway. I wished for you tonight. When I blew out my candles. Wished I could go back and start over, not make the worst decision of my life. Breaking up with you was s’posed to make things easy, wouldn’t hurt so bad with no strings, right? But missing someone and wanting them to be around and hear their voice - that’s gonna happen anyway, when you’re in love. Only now I’ve gone and fucked it up because I still get to miss you and want you around and miss your voice but this time, you’re not coming back in the end. I did that. I pushed you away and made you think I don’t love you and I do. I do so much, Harry. I love you. I should have told you that. I love you and I miss you and I want you to come home. To me. Please?”_

Harry drops the phone on the bed when the message ends and buries his face in his hands, his breath hitching. He wants that, more than he can even put into words but there’s the burn of bitterness in the back of his throat as he replays Nick’s words in his head. Harry’s lost count of the number of times that they’ve cuddled up in front of the telly together to watch GBBO or had a quiet night in with Harry making up some new recipe he’d found or strolls in the park to walk the dog but no, Nick basically tells Harry to fuck off and then waits until there’s an ocean and half a continent between them to tell him he loves him. Harry lets out a wet laugh, even though there’s nothing humorous about the situation and he shifts back on the bed to curl up, pressing his face into the pillow.

He doesn’t know where to go from here; they obviously need to talk, but Harry’s not going to be the first to bring it up, especially if Nick doesn’t even remember making the calls in the first place. There isn’t much they can solve from the road anyway and Harry won’t be home until the end of tour, having already booked studio time in LA. He could probably shift his schedule around, but if he’s learned anything from poker tournaments with the lads, you don’t go all in unless it’s a sure bet.

Glancing at the clock, Harry does a quick calculation in his head; Nick should be up by now. Even hungover, he tends to be an early riser, his time on the Breakfast Show making it hard for him to have a lie in once the sun rises. Harry suddenly remembers the texts and he reaches for his phone again, thumbing open his inbox. He scrolls past all of the unread messages until he finds the ones from Nick, chewing on the thumb of his left hand as he reads through them. His eyes widen and his heart rate picks up when he gets to the last text, sent just an hour ago: _I didn’t wake up with amnesia, but I did with half a heart. I meant it. Come home soon, popstar._

He can’t rearrange his schedule completely, won’t give in that easy because he’s worth the fight - _they’re_ worth the fight, dammit - but as he looks down at the text still lit up on his phone, Harry feels something like hope blossom in his chest. Maybe he can concede just a little bit and fly home for a day or two, long enough for them to maybe talk it out. Maybe.

  **♩♪♫♬ ♩♪♫♬**

**_baby, if I had to choose my best day ever,  
my finest hour, my wildest dream come true....mine would be you_ **

**♩♪♫♬ ♩♪♫♬**  

Later, after he’s climbed into bed and settled in for the night, Harry pulls up his twitter app and composes a new tweet. He chews on his bottom lip in thought for a moment and then his fingers are moving swiftly over the keyboard as he types. He taps the _’tweet’_ button and makes sure it goes through before locking his phone and setting it back on the bedside table. He falls asleep with Nick’s voice on a loop in his head. 

 

_@Harry_Styles: counting backwards the days til I’m home_

 

_fin._


End file.
